His hips were still pressed firmly against mine, holding in place, holding himself deep inside . The heavy, delicious weight of him was a physical anchoring, a promise in the silence.
My legs were still wrapped around his waist, loosely now, content. My body felt both buzzing and heavy, completely sated, yet still tingling with the echo of his climax inside .
Slowly, his breathing evened out, though it was still deeper than normal. He shifted a little, just enough to rub his cheek against mine, a soft, tender gesture that felt impossibly fragile after the raw power of the last few minutes.
"Adrien..." I whispered, the sound rough and soft at the sa ti.
He squeezed his eyes shut tightly for a second, pressing his forehead harder against mine. He didn’t speak, but I felt the subtle flex of his jaw muscles. It was like my single word had chipped away at the fragile peace, reminding us of the world outside this bubble.
Then Adrien slowly drew back, exhaling a sharp breath as he slipped out of . I winced at the loss and the aching sensitivity that followed. He noticed imdiately.
"Co on," he murmured, voice low but gentle. "You need a minute."
Before I could argue, his hands were under my thighs again, lifting with effortless ease. My arms instinctively looped around his neck, cheek pressed to his shoulder.
"I can walk," I muttered.
"You limped into my building a week ago and nearly passed out from standing too long at the site eting," he replied, cool and matter-of-fact. "Let take care of you, Isabella."
It wasn’t a question.
He carried across the office like it was nothing, nudging open a door to the left of his bookshelf— the one I’d always assud was just a storage closet. But of course it wasn’t.
Marble floors. Soft lighting. A rainfall shower behind frosted glass. A counter with neatly arranged grooming items. Black towels folded like they’d been inspected.
Adrien placed carefully on the edge of a wide bench near the vanity and turned on the tap. Warm water stread into a basin as he rolled up his sleeves.
I watched him in stunned silence as he dampened a towel, squeezed out the excess, and knelt in front of . No smirk. No teasing. Just quiet focus as he gently cleaned between my thighs, careful and thorough.
"You didn’t have to—"
"I wanted to," he said, his tone final.
My breath hitched again, but this ti it was for a different reason. There was no fire, no desperation, just... care. Utter, unexpected, profound care in the way he touched , in the focused intensity of his gaze as he cleaned . My body still pulsed from his touch, but this felt like a different kind of anchoring.
He finished, ticulously rinsing and wringing out the towel, then setting it aside. He didn’t stand imdiately, but remained kneeling, his eyes holding mine.
"Better?" he asked, his voice softer now, stripped of the gravelly dominance from monts before.
I could only nod, words still catching in my throat. My gaze swept over him – his slightly disheveled hair, the dampness at his temples, the lingering heat in his amber eyes, the dark trousers clinging to his thighs as he knelt there, for .
He reached out a hand, his thumb brushing gently against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. A faint tremor went through .
"Good," he murmured, a hint of satisfaction in the sound.
He handed a second towel. "Here. Stay seated for a second."
While I cleaned up the rest, he picked up my clothes—skirt, underwear, blouse—and disappeared briefly into the main office.
When he returned, he held out a black button-down shirt.
"I pushed my next eting. Take a minute here," he said simply. "Wear this for now. I’ll get your clothes pressed."
I blinked at him. "You have a stear in your office?"
He raised a brow. "I’m a CEO, Isabella. Of course I have a stear." He gave a short, dry chuckle. "Among other things." He gestured vaguely around the pristine bathroom suite.
My lips curved into a small, disbelieving smile. "Of course."
He held out the shirt again, his expression softening slightly. "Humidity control, a silent fridge stocked with exactly twelve different kinds of water, and yes, a damn good stear. And a private shower, clearly." He paused, his eyes tracing my face. "Anything you could possibly need, Isabella."
I took the shirt, the fabric soft and cool beneath my fingertips. It slled faintly of him – that clean, crisp scent I was rapidly becoming addicted to. "Thank you," I said softly, pulling it on.
It was huge on , swallowing my fra, the cuffs falling past my hands like sleeves made for soone twice my size. It felt like wearing a protective shield, or maybe just drowning in him.
The fabric brushed against my still-sensitive skin, a gentle caress that felt impossibly tender after the rough urgency of monts ago.
Once I was dressed, he poured a glass of water and passed it to .
"Why are you being so..." I searched for the word.
He offered it without flinching. "Gentle?"
I nodded.
"Because you’re mine. Because I know what you’ve been carrying, and how hard you’ve fought to co back strong. And because you let close, even when you didn’t have to."
His voice was low. Steady. Undeniably sincere.
A beat of silence passed before he added, softer now, "And because I missed you."
I looked at him. "You already said that."
His lips quirked just slightly, a faint, almost shy tilt that was utterly at odds with the powerful man who had just carried her in here and claid her so thoroughly.
"Is it bad I love reminding my girlfriend that I love her?" His voice was low, a gentle rumble this ti, no hint of the earlier dominance.
I looked at him, a slow warmth spreading through my chest. The oversized shirt felt less like a shield and more like a warm embrace now. "No," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "It’s not bad at all."
He smiled then, a genuine, soft smile that transford his face, chasing away the last vestiges of the intense focus he’d had monts before. It reached his amber eyes, making them crinkle at the corners.
"So... Mr. Walton, you have a call with your mother scheduled for 2:30."
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